Chapter 10 Remi #2
“That’s right.” He crooks his fingers and rubs against my prostate and my eyes nearly cross. “Give me more, sweet Hummingbird. Got my dick so fucking hard just listening to you.”
From the husky tone in his voice and the way his hips cant gently against the bed like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, I have to believe him.
He really does like it—he isn’t even touching himself. He’s just fucking me deep and slow with three fingers, and when my lashes flutter open and I manage to focus, I can see how hot his eyes are, the way he has his lower lip caught between his teeth like he’s the one getting fucked instead of me.
I squirm on his hand and shiver—the mixture of that fullness and his other fingers working my cock in tandem with the thrust of his wrist is already pushing me so close to the edge it’s almost embarrassing.
But…
Well, shit, he seems to like it. Before I can overthink it, I open my mouth to speak.
“I’ve never felt a-anything like this before.
” My words come out on a tremble, and my fingers drop to the sheets, twisting them while I rock down on his hand again.
I’ve completely forgotten that the room is cold, that the power is out.
I can’t remember anything but how good it feels for him to be inside me and how thick his fingers are when they thrust forward and then drag back over every place inside me that lights me up.
He already knows, and I don’t know if it’s because he’s just had a lot of sex, so he’s good at making people feel good, or if it’s because somehow he knows me.
I know I’m ridiculous enough to believe the latter when he squeezes my cock and leans down to kiss me.
“Tell me how it feels.” Streeter’s demand is greedy, and I’m so full, so warm, spiraling so close to the edge that I can’t think about refusing him.
“I’m so full. I—mmf, oh fuck, Streeter. It’s like I was born to take your fingers like this.
” My cheeks are hot again, and I’m embarrassed at the words coming out of my mouth, but somehow that embarrassment and the way it makes his pupils blow wide makes me keep talking.
Fuck, am I into being embarrassed? “I want you to fuck me, I want to feel all of you, I want—ah… oh, fuck.”
I hiss out the curse when he drops down suddenly and sucks my cock between his lips.
The heat of his mouth is too much in tandem with his fingers, and I feel the pleasure that had been building inside of me come to a head.
My entire body spasms as I come, and I can feel Streeter’s tongue working, his throat clenching around me hungrily as he swallows down the orgasm.
I’m a twitching, shivering mess and trying to gather my thoughts to thank him, to ask him if he wants me to return the favor…
when he raises up and drags his fingers up my hips.
I’m too boneless to realize what he’s doing when he presses them forward, shoving my knees to my chest so my ass is in the air and my hole is exposed.
I can only watch with heavy-lidded eyes as he drops his head and spits, a mixture of saliva and my cum dribbling from his lips in a messy string that I feel land inside me where his fingers opened me up.
My ass clenches on the air and I can feel it—cold, streaked with heat from the absolute way he wrecked me.
Filthy.
I feel so fucking filthy and used and good.
I didn’t realize I could feel like this.
“Oh… f-f-fuck, Streeter… oh, God.” I can barely manage to get the words out before his fingers dive into me again.
I can’t catch my breath to tell him I’m not sure I can do this again, and it doesn’t really seem to matter what I think I can do because he pegs my prostate over and over, and when he drops his head and lets his tongue join the mix, thrusting into my sloppy, worked hole, I feel my body clench again.
This time I see it—the way my cock jerks, the little dribble of cum that spills out like Streeter really intends to give me every orgasm Trevor ever denied me.
And… even if I don’t think I can do it…
Even if it’s going to end up killing me…
I want it. I really want it.
When I stop shivering long enough to catch my breath, I thread my fingers through his hair pleadingly.
“Streeter. Please… inside. I need you inside me.”
He raises his head, and his lips are glistening with spit and cum.
He doesn’t hesitate when he shifts, sliding up the length of my body, slicking my chest and his with the evidence of my second orgasm.
His mouth finds mine, and I have a moment to think the words again—fucking filthy—but I still open up when he kisses me, feeding me the taste of my pleasure still clinging to his tongue.
And when he leans back and positions himself between my legs, I can see the fire burning in his eyes.
“Ready for me, Hummingbird?”
A low sound catches in my throat when he finally rocks his hips forward and the sensation of him pressing inside me overwhelms my nerves. I feel like I’m going to go crazy—he’s slow, so slow it’s almost torture. So slow I’m wondering if he’s waiting for me to beg.
“Please,” I gasp after another inch, my body rocking up in an attempt to meet his. His fingers are strong on my hips, keeping me pinned in place with the same bruising strength that he used to cut someone’s head off in one swing of an ax. It’s… fuck.
Oh, fuck. It’s hot. There’s something so intoxicating about knowing he could kill me if he wanted to, but he’s using all that strength to keep me pinned while he absolutely owns my hole one slow, steady inch at a time, until I can feel my body shivering and the moisture on my skin is a mingle of sweat and tears that burn at my lashes.
It feels good.
He feels so good it’s almost unreal.
And his lips are warm when he leans down, spilling hot demands against my mouth.
“Say it again, Hummingbird.”
“Please, Streeter.” No pride. No hesitation.
Just the need to give him whatever he wants if it means he’ll flex his hips.
He rocks forward and bottoms out inside me, and his hand finally drifts from my hip to circle my cock.
He gives one long, slow stroke that makes me cry out as he slides his body back and then slowly thrusts into me again.
It’s nearly too much with the way he edged me before, too much with how overstimulated I am.
Too much and not enough, and I whimper again. “More, please.” My lashes feel wet, and my vision is blurry as I look up at him—a halo of golden hair with the sun pouring in off the snow-white trees, and eyes made of pure fire.
Angel.
Devil.
I really don’t know, but I’m almost positive I signed my soul over to him either way.
“Mmm, so fucking pretty when you beg.” Streeter’s purred compliment tingles against my skin and I open my mouth, trying to decide if I want to blush or beg more when he suddenly thrusts forward hard enough that the air punches out of my lungs.
At the same time, his hand slides from my hip, circling beneath me and rocking my body up so the thick head of his cock drags against that same place he was pegging with his fingers earlier and my entire body lights up like a Christmas tree.
I can’t think
I can’t breathe.
All I can do is feel it as Streeter shows me what it’s like to actually be fucked, to be owned.
To belong to someone, because the pleasure licking along my spine curves and swoops across every nerve I have and brands me with his name.
He was right.
There’s not going to be anyone after this. Nothing could feel this good—nothing could walk this line of pleasure and danger.
I’m not sure there’s anyone in this world like Streeter.
I moan again, my skin still feeling flushed but his words from earlier playing in my head.
He liked it when I made noise.
I unclench my fingers from the sheets and wrap my arms around him, giving myself over to him completely and letting my head fall back against the pillow so I can feel.
He’s so thick, driving into me so hard that I let out another moan and feel my nails bite into the swell of his shoulders.
“That’s right, give it to me. I’m going to take you apart, Remi.
I want some battle scars to show for it.
” And like he wants to prove his point, he leans down and bites my neck hard enough that I know he’s going to leave a mark, hard enough that it makes me cry out and my fingers dig into his skin until I wonder if I’m drawing blood.
He doesn’t break the motion of his hips, though.
Now that he’s fucking me, it’s like a dam broke.
Whatever self-restraint he borrowed from the Saint of Edging has fled, because he’s fucking me like I’m the last meal of a dying man and this is the only chance he’s going to get to chase the high of filling up on me.
I want him to. I want it so bad that I can’t see straight, so bad I can’t think straight. So bad that my hips are rocking up to meet him when he thrusts into me and his name comes from my chest in little punched-out chants of Streeter-Streeter-Streeter as fast as I can draw breath.
And even then, I still want more. I never knew being with someone could be like this, and apparently now that I’ve had a taste, I’m addicted to it.
To pleasure.
To fucking that’s tantamount to worship.
To Streeter.